


Sherlock Advent Calendar 2015

by AtlinMerrick



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A month of wee John and Sherlock silly-emo-sexy stories, Advent, Come play, M/M, Mistletoe, Sherlock Advent Calendar 2015, Wee holiday fics, crocheting festive...things, prompted by images you send!, rimming sugar of course
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-06 04:16:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 17,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5402675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/pseuds/AtlinMerrick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Little Christmas-time tales about the boys of Baker Street, many wee tales prompted by the images you send!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock knows what — and what not — to do when John dreams.

"John."

A clench-toothed grunt.

_"John."_

A fitful stir.

"You're dreaming, John."

Sherlock hasn't shaken John from a nightmare since his touch _became_ the nightmare. Because in that second between sleeping and waking? Well, you can dream the crumbling of a kingdom in those adrenaline moments, you can dream an earthquake and the fall of your one true love over and over and over.

So when John's whimper-mumbling woke Sherlock, Sherlock didn't touch John. Instead he pressed his mouth close to his sweetheart's ear and whispered low, "John. John. _John."_

John opened his eyes.

They saw nothing.

And then there it was, the dance of a shadow across the ceiling, the tickle of breath at his neck, his own deep sigh bringing reality back.

John turned toward Sherlock, tugged at his t-shirt, then tucked himself small against Sherlock's chest after his skin was bare.

Sherlock waited as John huffed himself calm, because he knew John would tell him about the nightmare. He always did. It was the best way to clear his mind of the misery.

After awhile a grunt finally came. A mumble. Maybe a swear. Sherlock was about to say, "What?" when John got out of bed, then walked heavy and slow from the room.

A blink. Another. Then Sherlock followed fast.

Within two steps he stubbed his toe on his own shoe, leapt around clutching his foot, tripped into the doorjamb and banged his head, and then hobbled into the sitting room where he was in time to see John snatch from their small tree the dancing penguin ornament Mrs. Hudson had given them.

He threw that thing into the fireplace and within the depths of cold ash the cursed thing began doing what it would not stop doing in John's nightmare: It wiggled and wiggled and giggled and giggled and John, suddenly thrown back into that bad dream, stood staring at it in sluggish horror until Sherlock, wounded of toe and temple and in a temper most foul, took up the poker and beat the mechanical thing into a cindery silence.

Two hours and the consumption of six peaty shots of Mrs. Hudson's _other_ Christmas present later, they'd lit the thing on fire, failed to give one another decent blow jobs, and fallen asleep in front of gently glowing embers.

_221b_hound prompted this Advent with the Skype dancing penguin, which she adores. So sorry for my cruelty to the wee happy thing my dear, it was sacrificed for art! P.S. As I'm moving slowly on this series,[there's always last year's Advent](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2826707/chapters/6341009)!_


	2. Zombies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes a man has to review the morals of his friends.
> 
> Sometimes he just does.

John Watson stood rain-wet and cranky in Mrs. Hudson's sitting room, a heavy sack of Chinese food in one hand, now-damp case files in the other, and his gaze upon the things on the floor.

Hudson and Holmes were bickering somewhere in the kitchen but John did not hear them, or the words semaphore, stoned, and zombie, for John Watson was shoulder-wiping rain out of his eyes and squinting again at the things in the middle of Mrs. Hudson's sitting room floor, and he was performing a brief review.

_Mrs. Hudson is so sweet that she made one hundred children smile this week._

John knew this for certain as he'd been the one to find the charming elf costume in her tiny size, he'd been the one to accompany her to Great Ormond Street Hospital, he'd tagged along right behind her as she chatted with sick children, and he'd helped her help Santa Claus pass out presents.

_Sherlock Holmes is so lovely he made a brace of kids giggle until they couldn't breathe._

John knows this for true too, for he was there when a pillow-plumped Santa Sherlock, helped a tiny elf pass out presents, then made each sick child giggle madly by deducing which words they found most silly. It turns out that fart, bum, and poop are universally riotous to those under eight.

_Mrs. Hudson once knitted jumpers for baby penguins._

He'd seen the photos, John had. Little baby penguins wearing tiny handmade jumpers while they recovered from exposure to an oil spill. In what she called her "fussy little knitting phase" Mrs. Hudson had produced twenty-eight wee garments in less than sixty hours. So adorable were the tiny jumpers that the animal rescue group sent her a photo of every baby penguin in his or her unique creation and John had positively cooed over those snapshots, twice.

_Sherlock is sneakily sweet to Greg Lestrade._

In the last year Sherlock has for the DI purchased forty-eight coffees, eighteen donuts, twelve newspapers, and four pairs of arch supports when he deduced Lestrade's fallen arches before Lestrade did. Sherlock did all of this without a word. When John asked why, Sherlock replied, "Because I don't hug him."

John understood what Sherlock was saying with that and what Sherlock was saying was this: "I am a handful and a half. If someone has a last nerve on which to tread I will find it. When I find yours John Watson, I can cuddle you close until you stop swearing or at least until you're no longer shouting. I do not do this for Lestrade. So I buy him donuts and lattes and mince pies from that shop he likes."

_Speaking of festive pies…_

When Mr. Chatterjee's chest freezer went on the blink again day before yesterday, Mrs. Hudson stored all his frozen pies while Sherlock called in a favour Electric Annie—now out of prison a record eight months—owed him. She showed up at two a.m. and fixed the thing better than new.

Right.

So.

After this brief reminder of the kind hearts that beat beneath the breasts of Mrs. Elizabeth Ariadne Westminster Hudson and Mr. Sherlock Holmes-Watson, John tip-toed closer to the things lying like murder victims on Mrs. Hudson's hearth rug.

"Mrs. Hudson is bunnysitting," said Sherlock, suddenly at John's ear. "And apparently she knows how to hypnotise rabbits."

John blinked up at him. Sherlock wiped rain water from his husband's brow with one hand, took the sack of Chinese food with the other. "I've made you a fancy coffee with that machine Annie gave us, and Mrs. Hudson's wearing the jingly little elf hat because she knows it makes you giggle. Come along John."

John Watson stared down at the non-murdered zombie rabbits a few moments more. When Hudson and Holmes began bickering in the kitchen again and John heard the words brains, acute swelling, and jingle balls, he sighed happily and headed toward the sweet smell of mince pies and the warm sound of laughter.

_Pureimaginatrix sent me the photo of the zombie bunnies. Given the life John leads I just figured some part of him would immediately jump to the wrong conclusion: murder. Thank heaven Hudson and Holmes know how to soothe his last nerves. (Taking prompts still!) P.S. After I published this story Batik was brilliant enough to send me[this link to Una Stubb's](http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss/184-0808740-5140143?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=una+stubbs+knitting) knitting books—Mrs. Hudson really knits, so to speak!_


	3. Kissing Under the Mistletoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John giggled, Sherlock goggled, and with a voice so high-pitched a little Chihuahua began yipping in the distance, Sherlock said, "I can never set foot in Speedy's again John."

Sherlock Holmes prides himself on boundaries. His lack _of_ them.

To wit: If the Met requires someone to walk into Potala Palace during a billionaire's Christmas ball, there to tell the ex-Lord Provost of Scotland that he has a semen stain on the back of his trousers which, once examined, will clear a high-class rent boy of cat burgling charges, Sherlock Holmes is, was, and ever shall be the man you send in to do this deed.

So unconcerned will Mr. Holmes be with the roomful of goggle-eyed stares, the threats of deportation from a red-faced immigration minister, and the shouts of the ex-Lord Provost's bearded lover, that Sherlock will write an email while he waits to receive those tartan trousers.

When he is not handed those trousers because the ex-Lord Provost is busy having an out-of-body experience, Sherlock will just undo the man's button and zip himself, tug the trews to his ankles and, while the gentleman stumble-steps out of them, Sherlock will finish thumb-typing the email that solves a fraud case in the Cameroons.

Further to wit: When John is irked about mistaking perfectly healthy _human_ kidney parts in their freezer for the _turkey_ parts in their freezer _after_ a dinner in which every one ate the 'turkey' soup they'd brought to the party, well Sherlock knows how to take John's mind off his ire.

On the tube home from Tooting Bec Sherlock will sit across from John and, pretending to fall asleep, he will proceed to go through an entire performance of having a sexy dream. To the flush-faced fascination of every last person in that tube car, this show will include breathy moans, tiny hip thrusts, and the development of a very stunning erection. By the time Sherlock "comes" in this fake little dream John has so completely lost the plot of his pique that they have sex for reals halfway up the steps to their flat.

All this by way of saying that Sherlock Holmes is pruriently proud of his lack of boundaries.

Ah, but this is not the same as saying that Sherlock Holmes does not _have_ boundaries, for he does and today he has just come right up on one and looked in horror to its other side.

"Mr. _Chatterjee?"_

Apparently a boundary which Sherlock will not cross comes in the form of the red thong panties he's holding and which John has just received as a Christmas present.

These festive pants have a tiny penis pouch up front and that would be bearable, really it would, if it weren't for the panty _back._ This consists of an arse cheek-separating string topped by a charming bit of felted mistletoe. _Mistletoe._ Holiday greenery clearly entreating the viewer to spread threaded arse cheeks and kiss what can be found between.

 _"Mr._ _CHATTERJEE_ gave you these?"

John giggled, Sherlock goggled, and with a voice so high-pitched a little Chihuahua began yipping in the distance, Sherlock said, "I can never set foot in Speedy's again John I can not look that man in the eye ever anymore ever why did you take these what was he thinking how does he know oh god he must have heard me that time I shouted for you to bend over and open wide is this what dying of embarrassment feels like oh god I—"

It was only about then Sherlock realised John was long gone and so were the mistletoe panties.

It was also about then that Sherlock sat up very straight on the sofa, used his genius brain to have some swift thinky thoughts and, having thunk those thoughts, decided he'd die of mortification later. Right now he could hear John's belt buckle hitting the floor and he urgently had to do some, uh, tongue kissing under the mistletoe.

_Enrapturedreader suggested men's novelty Christmas knickers, which was a brilliant idea. I wanted very specific ones I could not find, so I Photoshopped my own. Thank you Enraptured and[Xdress](https://xdress.com/product/view/panties/lace-string-l321) for this marvellous inspiration! P.S. You can see [larger versions of these Advent images](http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/tagged/sherlock-advent-calendar-2015) on my Tumblr. P.P.S. I'm also [on Twitter](https://twitter.com/AtlinMerrick)._


	4. Mascara and Mulled Wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft Holmes looked at Greg Lestrade and asked, "Why did you allow me to reschedule this…date…five times?"
> 
> "Because I like your brother."
> 
> Mycroft's extremely noticeable response was to not respond at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story can be read stand-alone but it refers to [Look at What the Met Dragged In](http://archiveofourown.org/works/789469). Thank you!

Mycroft Holmes held Gregory Lestrade's chair until the DI put his dark-suited self into it. Mycroft then took a seat across from him.

The elder Holmes smiled pleasantly at the DI, then nodded once as a server sailed by, the server nodded back and continued sailing. Twelve seconds later two glasses of champagne arrived and Greg wondered about mind rays.

They sipped in a pleasant silence.

Then more silence.

Then…

"Well! We're finally here! It's been what? Seven, eight months since the charity auction?"

Mycroft nodded brightly, continued to sip pleasantly.

"I still can't believe you, uh, paid a hundred thousand pounds for me. For a date." Greg giggled. "I probably should have worn the little skirt again. And the mascara and high heels and all."

Mycroft smiled in a lovely way.

"It was fun that. All the dressing up and strutting around and the bidding. Sherlock and John made out well. You should join us next year! You'd, uh, you'd look lovely in drag."

Mycroft contrived to blush.

Greg cleared his throat, finished his champagne, gestured for one of the sailing servers.

"Mulled wine please."

The server nodded, vanished. Greg giggled nervously. "I know it's not classy but I love it during the holidays." More giggling. "Just be glad I didn't ask for marshmallow flumps, too, I love those even more."

No one said anything for twenty seconds. The mulled wine appeared. Greg bolted most of the first, clutched the waiter to order a second, then leaned across the table and whispered. "Look, I'm getting nervous, you're making me nervous., stop making me nervous, would you please just say something?"

Mycroft Holmes is brilliant. Genius. Has been since thoughts first fired through that ginger head. And since Mycroft was a boy he's had to cope with the swamp, the mire, the _deluge_ of that genius in whatever way he could.

For a long time that took the form of rote memorization: The definition, spelling, and usage of every 'Q' word in the Oxford English dictionary. The entire periodic table, including atomic numbers, abbreviations, electron configurations, and mass to three decimal points. The name, reign, birth, death, and decedents to four generations of every British monarch.

Eventually Mycroft found a more fulfilling outlet for his genius and that was the intriguingly endless convolutions of statistics, diplomacy, politics.

All this is by way of saying that Mycroft is smart and life has seen to it that much of his brilliance is used in the understanding of people. Which was why Mycroft smiled just then and for long moments said nothing, not with words. Instead he let the man in front of him see his smile. It was crooked one. Uncertain. Nervous.

And then finally Mycroft spoke.

"Yes I will…G-g-greg."

And there it was, in four words. One word really. All of it, the months of canceled dates, the 'missed' phone calls, the lunch planning that had been strictly emails and texts.

Detective Inspector Lestrade emphatically isn't Sherlock Holmes; he tries, but he can't see what those strange eyes see. No, Greg Lestrade doesn't see so much as feel, sensing truth from lie, simple silence from silent fear.

Combine this with the knowledge that few people want to be treated delicately, politely, and so when Greg's got a question he damn well _asks_ that question.

"How long've you stammered? No, wait. How long have you _not_ stammered?"

Mycroft grinned, because that second question was far wiser than the first. He took a deep breath, spoke slowly, cheeks flushing bright with effort. "All my adult life. I laid this little impediment to rest before I turned ten. But it's come back twice, each time because I worried it would."

Greg didn't ask why Mycroft had worried about his stammer coming back for this date. It was self-evident and named Gregory Lestrade.

"Any questions?"

Mycroft nodded, "Yes, just one." He looked at Greg's hand on the table top without actually looking at it. He wanted to touch it. He did not touch it. "Why did you allow me to reschedule this…date…five times?"

"Because I like your brother."

Mycroft's extremely noticeable response was to not respond at all.

"Sorry, I said that badly. I mean that I like Sherlock but at first…at first it was hard. But I learned he's worth liking, he's worth the effort. You? Well Mycroft you've a lot more charm than he does, so I figured you'd be even more worth it."

"Thank you. Twice."

The DI waited for more. He toyed with his wine glass while he waited. He made a polite point of the waiting.

But there came no more and that just wasn't on. Greg's not Sherlock, no, but he's a very bright man and he realised that if they were going to have a second date this first one had to change.

"I'd like to see you again Mycroft, but not if I'm going to be the one doing all the work. Talk to me please."

The Holmes boys, for so long they looked down on those less genius than they, but eventually each man learned that being a genius was the easy part. It was everything else—the words, the needs, the _hope_ —that was hard.

"I'm so used to listening in my line of work. Waiting, weighing, planning every word so it has power that I, uh…" Mycroft stopped, started again. "Thank you for the compliment to my brother. For making the effort, it's meant everything to him. And thank  you fff-for me, as well." Mycroft smiled. "As a matter of fact, Sherlock has rarely—"

"No."

Mycroft stopped talking. He began waiting. Weighing, pla—

"And no again."

Yep, Greg Lestrade liked Sherlock. Not least because Sherlock had taught him _this:_ How to push past your own hesitation and just say what needed saying.

"We are not using Sherlock as the social lubricant between us." Greg frowned. "Well that was an unfortunate metaphor. Um, what I meant to say is…" Greg gently gripped the tips of Mycroft's fingers. "Let's just talk, okay?"

Sometimes when you think about something too much you feel close to that thing. Mycroft had spent the last three weeks saying Greg's name in a mirror. He'd visualised the man while doing so. He'd envisaged much, much more.

Which was why Mycroft, who never used to daydream about holding a man's hand, looked at a man's hand, holding his. And suddenly he felt needy. And hopeful.

And so Mycroft turned his hand up and held the tips of Greg Lestrade's fingers, and he asked those lovely fingers, "Sss-so…what sort of high heels do you think would suit me?"

_Aranel Parmadil prompted me with the words mascara, marshmallow, and mulled wine, and I've wanted to write a tiny wee Mystrade follow-up to[Look at What the Met Dragged In](http://archiveofourown.org/works/789469) for awhile now and so here we go. P.S. The photo is where I imagine they had lunch..._


	5. The Annunciation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes John Watson and Sherlock Holmes have quite different ways of saying the same thing...

"…so, uh, we're together now. Since he came back from Glasgow." John grinned at his shoes, then out the office window, then at Greg.

Greg beamed back. Then he blinked and remembered to act his arse off.

"Wow, that's wonderful John, what a surprise! Can't wait to congratulate Sherlock too, the big git!"

John smiled, looked toward the door. "Speaking of, I better drag him away from the morgue or we'll be late. Mrs. Hudson's tree needs putting up."

The two men smiled and waved at each other, grinned and waved, and when John finally disappeared around a corner Lestrade slumped against his desk.

God he was a terrible actor; two more seconds and he'd have told John everything. That he already knew, that Sherlock had swooped in not five minutes earlier, slammed his office door open, and said, "John and I have begun a romantic relationship as of thirteen days, seven hours ago and it's magnificent. All of it. The kissing and the cuddling and the sex, even the bollocks scratching and the burps. I didn't expect that. All the magnificence."

Then Sherlock had said, "I have to go to the morgue," turned, and slammed the door behind him.

Five minutes later along came John.

Lestrade shook his head and grinned at his office door. Then giggled. Then positively beamed.

_Chryse prompted with the word annunciation. While conventionally associated with angels and virgin births, the word also means announcement. What would Sherlock or John announce do you think? This is what I thought. P.S. This is a 221B; a story of 221 words, the final word beginning in B._


	6. The Birds and the Bees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things Mrs. Turner simply will not talk about, no.
> 
> That does not mean she will not... _listen._

"…I'm afraid I'll have to go at nine p.m. sharp. John is taking me to bed. We're trying something new."

Sex has existed through all of human history. Mrs. Turner has existed for 78 years of that history and, sexually-speaking, has used it to quite good effect. There are eighteen love-ins, four orgies, two swinging singles parties, and a great many affairs, experiments, and mistakes on her CV Amour… _however._

Unlike Mrs. Hudson, who seems free as a bird, discussing such matters with her _tenants,_ Mrs. Emma Turner does not run round talking about her sex life, not past, not present, not future, no she very much does not.

So, sitting on her sofa crocheting while Sherlock Holmes does some sort of arcane experiment with her dumb cane plant, Mrs. Turner is given significant pause by the young man's reply to her question, "Would you like a bit of cake Sherlock? My Victoria sponge should be ready for slicing."

Startled enough at his answer to drop a stitch, Mrs. Turner is forced to unravel some of her work, and even mutters a sotto voce swear.

Busy extracting sap from her dieffenbachia seguine (she'd forbid him to hack at her peaky little dieffenbachia macrophylla), Sherlock does not even notice.

That is just as well. Mrs. Turner has already heard an earful from Mrs. Hudson about the sex life of "her boys." Apparently Sherlock Holmes—to whom the whole vast panoply is new—shares with her whatever carnal tidbits pop into his fluffy-haired head.

That is not Mrs. Turner's way.

"Well then, you run along Sherlock. And do please tell John he can come by tomorrow morning. The Christmas item he requested will be ready."

No. Unlike Sherlock Holmes and her closest friend Elizabeth Hudson, Mrs. Emma Turner is quite private and does not _talk_ about sex.

She will _crochet_ it however.

What John Watson and his fluffy-haired sweetheart do with this bee penis sock afterward is very much none of her business.

(Though if she plays her cards right, she'll barely need to prompt Lizzie to tell all.)

_Hotdogsngiggles said she could imagine Sherlock telling Mrs. Hudson every time John has taken him to bed, and Stars sent me the glorious wee bee penis sock, and they mixed up in my brain and here you go. (You can find the[bee penis sock here](https://www.etsy.com/listing/244676016/crochet-sexy-mens-thong-men-thongs)!)_


	7. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock will always help John find his way home…

"Do you have your identification?"

A pretend quick check. "Yes."

"Do you have your itinerary?"

Another pretend check. "Yes."

"You're pretending to check."

John huffs and smiles, drops his carry-on luggage by the front door and goes to Sherlock, standing at the fireplace all dawn-sleepy, sex-mussed, and bare but for his dressing gown. He nuzzles his warm, pale neck. "Yes I was and yes I'm sorry. It's only two days sweetheart, it'll go quickly."

Sherlock grumbles into John's hair, "Two days and nineteen hours. That's closer to three days than it is to two. _Obviously."_

John almost sasses Sherlock for sassing him, but why start now? Since they got out of bed Sherlock's been a pest, trailing him from the bedroom to the kitchen, the kitchen to the sitting room, and each time John said, "Sherlock," Sherlock said, "What?" and picked up something random, as if he'd had a sudden need for the TV remote or a fork.

Things came to a head in the head.

Grabbing his shaving kit from the loo, John turns and walks right into Sherlock's chest.

He looks up. Sherlock looks down. Then Sherlock reaches behind John, picks up a comb, puts it in the pocket of his dressing gown. "I lost mine."

That a comb could no more untangle Sherlock's chaotic morning curls than could a sausage is, apparently, something Sherlock is pretending John doesn't know.

John almost teases, but instead he wraps his arms around his sweetheart's waist and says softly, "It was your very brilliant idea we go thank Robbie for all the clients she's sent us this year. 'Good for business' you said."

Sherlock had indeed had that brilliant idea, said those foolish words, and booked their idiotic tickets for Dublin over Christmas. But that was before Lestrade came along with a nine in the form of an Olympic silver medalist, an unclaimed inheritance, and a mummified corpse found beneath a Pizza Express.

Sherlock softly bumps his forehead against John's, once, twice, three times. He knows he's being a pest. Needy. Ridiculous.

Well, that's never stopped him before.

He stops himself now. Unwinding John's arms, Sherlock kisses his palms, whispers, "Go."

A kiss, then another, a whisper of _back before you know it,_ and John's gone.

Almost.

He's halfway through the front door, the taxi just coasting to the kerb, when Sherlock comes thundering down the steps behind him, tugging him back inside, closing the door.

Breathing as if he'd run miles, Sherlock takes John's hands, his perfect perfect hands, and puts them between his own bare legs.

It takes a moment, another, then John understands.

The sex this morning had been slow and sweet and messy, so John seeks the lingering wet of sweat and come and spit on Sherlock's body. Then he runs the fingers of his left hand across his mouth, chin, and cheek, the fingers of his right he swipes from shoulder to shoulder to belly, scenting himself with Sherlock.

He starts to do it a second time, but the taxi driver honks and Sherlock says softly, "Come home."

Though there's no doubt of that, not ever, John replies, solemn as a promise, "I will." He takes a deep breath. "I know the way."

_After reading[A Tribe of Two](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4890460/chapters/11720735), BlackMorgan accidentally prompted me with, "I shall always now imagine Sherlock and John scenting each other to 'come home,'" and I thought that was beautiful, and so this. P.S. [Mah second book](http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/post/135382995104/the-night-they-met-is-out-19-romantic-stories) is out._


	8. Philautia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas is a good time to fall through the looking glass.
> 
> Of course Sherlock falls harder than most.

Sherlock took his own pulse. His heart rate had spiked by fifteen percent in less than three minutes.

He stood straighter on the coffee table, looked over his shoulder and into the mantel's mirror again. He fingered the corset's ruffled edging slowly, noted how it enhanced the generous curve of his arse. His heart rate bumping up another two percent. Not that he was counting. (He was totally counting.)

He turned again, watched in the glass as both his hands stroked down over purple-black satin, rubbed at the boning hidden underneath. He glanced at his half-mast cock, felt like rubbing another sort of bone.

Sherlock blinked slow, stared at his own reflection in the distant mirror. It was like he was looking at himself _as_ someone else. The man in this satiny confection was some… _curved_ creature. Lavish in the places where he dipped, then swelled.

And Sherlock wanted him.

Sherlock stepped back, nearly tumbled off the low table. Didn't.

He took one barefoot step forward again, and in that glass he peered at himself.

Sherlock Holmes is not humble, he's not self-effacing, and he is was and ever shall be inclined to toot his own intellectual horn. At volume.

Yet here, now, he was given pause by this sudden spike of desire for his own body.

Except it wasn't.

No, it was not his body. The man in the mantel mirror was a gently bound confection. He swelled sweetly plump at rump and hip. Those curves wanted the tender bite of teeth, the tight press of thighs, they wanted soft, soft touches.

Sherlock closed his eyes just a little, just enough, then gazed sly in the glass. Through his lashes he could barely see his own face, no. Instead all he saw were fingertips running over ripeness, all he felt was the blood-heat of touch, all he wanted was—

"John."

Standing in the hall doorway, sleepy-eyed and grinning, Sherlock's one true love murmured, "I knew you'd find it." He scuffed barefoot to the sofa, Sherlock's pyjamas riding low on his hips.

With a sigh John stretched out on the sofa, looked at the mirror, saw Sherlock's reflection. "Merry Christmas," John whispered, sliding a hand into loose pyjama bottoms.

John's hand did not move until Sherlock looked again in the mirror. And began to stroke.

_Philautia means love of self and in this context…well, wouldn't you? I hope your festivities are proving as pleasurable, and here are[50,000 words of new stories](http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/post/135717776644/who-is-that-notmasked-woman-and-where-can-you-get) that may also offer some merriment. P.S. Thank you [Xdress](https://xdress.com) for the image and Kalee for prompting "pretty boys in lingerie," which has, so far, been rather the theme of my slow-moving Advent._


	9. A Very Ugly Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sherlock, we have a freakishly large number of cases that require us to model things. Of all the things we have modeled I can with confidence say I hate this thing the most. It's a murder jumper, Sherlock, a snowman murder jumper. I am actually trying not to cry...”

John can speak without words.

He does this with mutters and grunts, humphs and tsks, throat clearings and sighs.

John's ability to speak without actual language is one of a thousand reasons Sherlock is in love with him, will never get to the bottom of him, will always have the latest spreadsheet software on his laptop.

For Sherlock Holmes must gather, track, and quantify each sound. He must become an adept in this rarest of languages, know it so well that he understands when a grumble means _one more pedantic point driven home in that way and I will eat your kidneys Sherlock Holmes I am so not even kidding._ He has to grasp the nuances so thoroughly that when John sighs Sherlock understands it to convey _oh god I can't wait any more please my love please sink that soft arse down down down on me._

All of this by way of saying that Sherlock knew exactly what John was wordlessly communicating when, after rooting around in her studio for a solid ten minutes, the fashion designer finally unearthed and cheerfully handed to John her "wittiest Christmas jumper ever!"

Looking at the terrible thing, John mumbled, then he made a sucking sound through his teeth. There were no vowels nor consonants in this series of sounds, and yet Sherlock could with confidence interpret John as saying…

_Sherlock, we have a freakishly large number of cases that require us to model things. Of all the things we have modeled I can with confidence say I hate this thing the most. It's a murder jumper, Sherlock, a snowman murder jumper. I hate the wool or cotton or whatever innocent material this horror is made from. I hate the people who made it. I hate the entire earth. I am actually trying not to cry._

Because they could not interpret John's sounds the designer and photographer blinked at Sherlock. Sherlock blinked back, and with a bright smile and innocent eyes said, "He really likes it. He says it emphasises his shoulders."

What it did was highlight the murderous gleam in the good doctor's eye, the grimly amused glitter that said _just you wait love, I bet she's got something_ fantastic _for you._

An hour later John was proved quite right.

Before that time Sherlock used his husband's diverting tactics to advantage, for indeed they've had many cases requiring fashion photoshoots and by now John knows how to eye fuck the camera so thoroughly Sherlock usually has an erection _and_ twice the time he needs to rifle through drawers, cabinets, and wall safes.

Now was no different and the evidence-smuggling pen was in Sherlock's pocket long before the designer trilled, "That was wonderful Dr. Watson. Come along Mr. Holmes we'll get you dressed in your outfit!"

So here's the thing: Sherlock's still learning Language John. Which is why, when Sherlock emerged in the worst suit that has ever covered his refined and delicate flesh, when he strode in front of the camera in a riot of festive _trees_ —with matching tie—he was not sure how to interpret John's two sighs and single throat clearing.

It was not until he had lounged about on a velvet sofa for an hour, lash fluttering, lip-licking, and making photogenic moues, that Sherlock's great big brain correctly translated.

 _Look at you in that suit, Sherlock. Look at you looking god damn_ good _in that suit. That's not fair. I got the awful murder jumper and you got…well you got a shitty suit and you know what? You just know what? I'm going to sit back here and watch you wear that horrible thing in your gorgeous genius way. Then after I'm going to let you take me out to dinner to make up for the murder jumper, and then to make it up to you for that terrible suit I'm going to tie a festive bow around your cock and suck you until we both start speaking in tongues._ That _is what I am going to do._

So pleased was the designer with the resulting photos—Sherlock flushed brighter than a Christmas tree—that she offered them two suits, gratis.

They declined but John said, "We'll take the tie though, thank you." John looked at Sherlock and dropped his gaze…there. "Yes please, we'll take the tie."

_Thank you everyone, including BlancheDuke and ButterscotchCandybatch who prompted with ugly Christmas jumpers. There were snowmen with carrot penises, reindeer humping, cats in festive hats…[and then these suits](http://www.opposuits.co.uk/suits/collection.html). While my manip skills are so-so, I think you'll agree: Sherlock could totally somehow pull this off. He just…could. ([Big images](http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/post/136070370119/fic-a-very-ugly-christmas-sherlock-we-have) here.)_


	10. Sentiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some think John and Sherlock are not sentimental.
> 
> Some think wrong.

They are sentimental men, Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes, though the casual observer would not know this.

Should such an observer see the sun-bleached bit of cow jawbone on the bookshelf right of the sofa, they wouldn't know Sherlock kept it as a reminder of the summer evening they lay on cool Thames sand, indolently kissing the heat away.

That same bystander wouldn't look twice at the simple map beside Sherlock's chair. The one John drew for their the-day-they-met anniversary, its codes and clues leading Sherlock from 221B to a bakery to a restaurant to a wine shop to a black car, which whisked him to a rendezvous with his sweetheart behind the clock face of Big Ben.

Likewise the casual viewer would not see sentiment in the framed brain scan, the Christmas bookmark or the rusted ball chain, empty pill bottle, or tiny mouse skull, though each of these marks an emotional moment—a _sentimental_ moment—for both of them.

Of course what others fail to see doesn't matter and when Dimmock remarks on a vase of purple roses on their shared desk—"I didn't know you boys were sentimental types"—neither John or Sherlock respond.

Instead they continue to show their tenderness for one another in strange and singular ways. It's who they are. It's who they'll always be.

_Kostia prompted with purple roses and that led to this 221B. Thank you Kostia! P.S. When the Thames was narrowed years ago, they used rubbish as fill. This fill included slaughterhouse waste, which is why you easily find bones of all sorts along the Thames shore—as well as clay pipes and pipe stems, pottery, and other bits and bobs._


	11. Odd Little Ducks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Altamont Mycroft Holmes has called his wife Ducky since before they were married.
> 
> After a bright epiphany one day, Maureen Lenore Sherlock Vernet came to love the endearment...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to the wondrous [221b_hound](http://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound) who inspired me with the sweet-sad phrase 'odd little duck' in chapter three of her marvellous [Triptych](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5446508?view_full_work=true).

Altamont Mycroft Holmes has called his wife Ducky since before they were married.

In the beginning of their courtship, Maureen Lenore Sherlock Vernet had tut-tutted Al's endearments. It was a month before the mathematics genius applied those brains to the study of more than her beau's long, lean charms.

After that shift in her legendary focus, it took Maureen little time to realise Altamont loved more than her physical attributes, something that became even more clear when clever duck was joined by smarty pants by Einstein and then by button (as in bright as).

It was ducky that Maureen came to love after having another bright epiphany: These endearments had less to do with Maureen's oddly busy head than with Altamont's big, gentle heart. He was _proud_ of her, of exactly who she was, of what she could do, of how she did it.

Let everyone else shrug and wonder what a man could see in a woman who wrote abstruse formulae about fire, who could provide not only esoteric data on the dynamics of combustion, but one who had, over the years, burned everything from human hair to tatty sofas to oil-impregnated sand, each time furthering human understanding of how things begin to burn.

While they're at it, let everyone shrug and wonder what a woman could see in a man who'd failed out of Cambridge, one whose ambitions were ever in step with his abilities, a man who laughed and called himself a moron when he didn't understand something, one who never felt the need to prove anything to anyone other than the one to whom he was already everything.

For years theirs was the comfortable union of a simple soul and an odd duck, each who cared only for the opinion of the other, and by the time children entered their lives both were quite ready. That each boy proved as exceptional as his mother and big-hearted as his father came as no surprise to either of them.

Alas, the surprises came later, when each boy found it impossible to be both smart _and_ kind. Before those long years of struggle and fear, however, there were sweet years of _family,_ and during those times Altamont showered his three bright ducks with games, nicknames, affection…and ducks.

The rubber duck collection had begun during the Vernet-Holmes courtship and Maureen had a dozen by the time he began buying for the boys. The only reason he did _that_ was because both children loved Maureen's red bus ducky and her silver ducky with the black feather boa and the little one in the silly grey outfit and hat (Maureen liked that one best as its red bow tie reminded her of her husband).

So for many years each boy found in his Christmas stocking a rubber duck and each of course had his favourite. While Mycroft liked most of his half dozen, especially the little beefeater in its bright red coat, the one he loved and took into the bath for years was the pink queen in her silver crown.

Sherlock liked the one with the silly grey outfit and hat, just like his mother, but for a long time his favourites were the policeman in his perky blue custodian helmet and the pirate. For years these two had watery adventures, most of which concerned diving into bathtub depths in search of treasure.

Altamont too had his own favourites among the dozens of rubber toys he'd bought his clever family, of course he did.

The one Mr. Holmes loved most was the one he got after Sherlock was born…the big duck on whose back nestled three little ducks. Those three reminded Altamont Mycroft Holmes of his own three odd ducks, of their beautiful minds, and most of all of their big (though sometimes hidden) hearts.

_I am indebted to 221b_hound's prompt 'odd little duck,' in her sweet John/Sherlock/Mary story[Triptych](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5446508/chapters/12588293), thank you 221b! And by the way, there's a sometimes-tradition of giving a mother's maiden name to her children as a first or middle name, to help the mother's surname live on. I've decided Mummy and Daddy Holmes both carry as a middle name the surname's of their mothers, and that they then gave those names—Mycroft and Sherlock (see, it is a girl's name!)—to their boys. And, P.S. [It's now out in paperback](http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/post/136276512769/the-paperback-is-out-today-the-night-they-met-my)!_


	12. Making a Moue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gregory Lestrade has caught John and Sherlock out many, many times. An almost legendary number of times, considering. It's nearly a knack at this point, perhaps a skill. As if Greg's trying.
> 
> He is not trying and yet…

Lestrade has caught John and Sherlock out many, many times. An almost legendary number of times, considering. It's nearly a knack at this point, perhaps a skill. As if Greg's trying.

He is not trying and yet…

And yet Gregory Benjamin Lestrade right now feels certain that he's done it again, gazing serenely through a scant eight-inch wedge of John and Sherlock's front door, looking up at a sheet-wrapped Sherlock looking down at him.

Not looking really. Peering. Peering at him and puckering.

Puckering, as in Sherlock's mouth parts are pursed up in a tight moue, much as if he's been sucking on a lemon. Lestrade's pretty sure that if he pried the man's mouth open he'd see it swimming with spit. Or something else.

This thought doesn't phase Greg at all. He's a cop. He's seen things. Lots of things. Little bothers him at this point but even if it did, what's the bother about something nice, like a spitty mouth that may or may not have come in it?

Based off the fact that Sherlock's clutching a sheet, badly covering himself from neck to just south of his half-erect dick, Lestrade's going to go ahead and presume nice things were happening before he knocked and he interrupted something just after or just before, as he's done many, many times. An almost legendary number of times.

"Well here they are," Greg says, holding three cold case files toward the bit of open doorway, remembering that last time.

It was actually only two days ago so it's not hard. To remember. Candy canes are hard though. He knows that from having crunched through about seventy-two this Christmas give or take a dozen. (Lestrade puts on a kilo every. single. December. damn. it.).

Anyway that time John had come to the door in a sheet (Lestrade can only presume that during this crime-fallow Christmas John and Sherlock have literally just fucked around all day) to give back to Lestrade the cold case files he'd delivered two days previous. Sherlock's solutions were scrawled across the cover of each, and as John clutched his sheet with one hand and handed the files over with the other, a rather large candy cane suddenly dropped to the floor.

From under John's sheet.

It shattered into a half dozen skittering piece. One shard bounced onto the tip of Greg's shoe. After they both looked down at it, both Greg and John pretended not to see it. Same as Lestrade pretended not to see John's face go about as red as the stripes of the candy cane.

John had blinked at Lestrade then. Through no fault of his own Lestrade had been unable to keep his surmises from his face, the surmises about butt cheeks and inserting things and clenching and still blushing John had said, "I'm sorry we can't be friends any more, Greg. I can’t be friends with someone I can no longer look in the eye.”

Lestrade had taken the files still bridging the gap between them and said, "See you at the new year's party," and buggered off.

That had been last week and now here he was with more files and Sherlock had yet to say one word but he didn't really have to because Lestrade is neither blind nor stupid and no matter how still John remained over by the merrily dancing fire, even through only eight-inches of open door Lestrade could tell there was a man-sized lump under the duvet there, and that that man-lump was rump up.

Continuing to be neither stupid nor blind, Lestrade was able to see a nice gold tin of—he squinted—lemon rimming sugar and it was but a moment to piece together tangy lemon with the rump with the mouth moue.

"I'm a bit short on manila folders," Greg said to Sherlock. "Can you write your notes on a sheet of paper this time please?"

Lestrade bent over and shoved the files through the gap in the door, slid them into the room, and called, "Still on for that pint tomorrow John?"

The lump beneath the duvet was silent for all of a second, then it sighed and said, "Yeah, sure."

Lestrade tipped his non-existent hat and with a placid smile said, "Evening gentlemen."

He grinned when halfway down the stairs he heard a skittering of mad giggles.

_Wonderful Hippiechick prompted with the lemon rimming sugar, thank you very much Hippiechick! Oh, and a couple of the lines between Greg and John over the candy cane? Quoted almost word-for-word from chapter 10 of Hyacinth_sky747's glorious[What to Do When Your Flatmate is Homicidal](http://archiveofourown.org/works/383020). Read it. It is all full of glory. P.S. And another [The Night They Met](http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/post/136276512769/the-paperback-is-out-today-the-night-they-met-my) reminder!_


	13. Dublin, Part the First

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock sat up suddenly, laundry scattering across the loo floor. He scowled at the clothes that smelled of everything but John, scowled at a flat that roared with John's silence and, suddenly furious with everything, Sherlock decided to manage that madness in the most natural way possible.
> 
> He would set stuff on fire.

The Irish case John sent from Dublin was puzzling, comprising as it did a dozen puzzles.

There was a brace of crosswords (which Sherlock loathes), Sudokus (which he dislikes), a riddle (which he'd burn in hell if there was a hell for hated riddles), and one of those find-and-circle-the-word things (which he did with his tongue stuck out the corner of his mouth).

The whole thing was very nearly a seven, what with the possible toppling of the Taoiseach, though it fell to a four when Sherlock was forced to leave the flat, though it gained a half point when he was able to whisper-harass his favourite librarian at the London Library.

All in all, at least the case gave him a day of diversion when John's Dublin trip stretched from two days to four, and the corpse-inheritance-Olympian case fell through. Yet puzzles, politics, and a couple pizzas bought by Lestrade as apology were not enough to make the days pass sweetly.

To be fair, nothing would make up for John's absence except for John's presence, doing John things.

Two-finger typing an email, for example, then erasing as many as one hundred and eighty-seven characters a _single keystroke_ at a time (Sherlock counts), instead of just highlighting the whole blasted business and deleting that way.

Making tea and drinking tea, then when Sherlock magnanimously makes the next cup, demanding coffee instead because John likes to confuse Sherlock by being confusing.

Smacking Sherlock's hand away from his mouth when he chews on a hangnail, then mouthing at his own fingers as he searches for yet another overwrought adjective for the blog.

So no, a case of any number was not going to be enough to silence the John-shaped quiet all over the flat so, once the puzzles were done and the solutions texted, Sherlock _made noise._

Mostly he did that by yelling at his phone when John delayed in replying to one of his one hundred and twenty-three texts. He did this by setting off small, fiery explosions in the tub. He did this by turning on the television at three a.m. and then shouting abuse at it.

When none of this caused Tuesday to arrive any more quickly, and Mrs. Hudson said that three a day was her limit for coming up the stairs to shout at him, Sherlock made noise by pounding out his own blog entries, thousand word monographs on tea bags or toothmarks, long-winded essays so dull they bored even him.

When he'd exhausted these diversions Sherlock eventually decided to do as John does—he would breathe.

He started with the dirty laundry.

Coats are washed less often than probably any other item of clothing, so Sherlock threw every one of John's winter warmers on the bed and shoved his nose in the armpits and the collars and he huffed deep and deeper still and he found they had a scent, the coats, indeed they did.

And that scent was _wrong._

Wool coats, cotton, nylon, they all smelled clothy-scratchy-thick, but no matter how deep Sherlock breathed somehow there was no _John._

So Sherlock went for the _actual_ laundry, dumping the over-full basket onto the floor, ankle deep in a pile of John's pants and shirts and jumpers and then belly down on the loo floor, nose shoved into the mound and breathing deep of…

Horse dung.

That was on the pair of John's trousers right under Sherlock's head. Sherlock's to blame for the smell being there because walking through Hyde Park late one night the consulting detective did not detect a massive pile of poo and when he slip-slid in the stuff he angrily kicked it off his shoe. And on to John's crotch.

John had sworn. Sherlock had apologised.

Shoving the horse crap jeans away, dragging another piece of laundry over, Sherlock breathed deep and smelled…

Milky espresso.

That was on John's third favourite shirt and that being there was Sherlock's fault too. They'd been in a hurry to get to the Met so they could get to Mile End so they could talk to a Marchioness who had a clue about the theft in Mudchute and Sherlock had gestured left when he should have gestured right and down John's front went a milk-cooled espresso.

John had glared. Sherlock had pretended not to see.

Tossing the shirt over his head, Sherlock pulled close a thin cotton scarf. He took a deep breath of…

Bacon. Sherlock flipped onto his back and draped the scarf over his face. John was to blame for this, for wrapping a stolen bacon butty in his own scarf, for the theft of the thing from Anderson's desk after he was rude to Sherlock. John had presented it to Sherlock like a gift, after he'd made his get-away. They'd consumed the whole thing in the lift before they even made it to the ground floor.

Sherlock sat up suddenly, laundry scattering across the loo floor. He scowled at the clothes that smelled of everything but John, scowled at a flat that roared with John's silence and, suddenly furious with everything, Sherlock decided to manage that madness in the most natural way possible.

He would set stuff on fire.

With the relief of a man who now has a plan, Sherlock decided that he would burn _laundry._ Because laundry that didn't smell right at all had now become a metaphor for everything—the silence, his annoyance, Mrs. Hudson's shouting—and that metaphor, Sherlock felt, should _burn._

Right.

Sherlock lit a candle. A single candle, a regiment of one, waiting to taste of cotton, nylon, elastic, and silk. Waiting to show him how they burned, the smells left behind, the ash. He would take notes. Detailed notes. It would be useful for a case. He'd make sure of it.

Fine.

Sherlock returned to the loo, ran a discerning eye over the scatter of laundry, a connoisseur searching for a few things just-so.

There were more jumpers to choose from, more scarves, too. There was his own pyjamas and John's, there were socks and waistcoats and pants. There was, in the end, choice so varied that Sherlock simply scooped everything up and brought the whole lot with him.

It was standing there in the sitting room, arms full, watching fire dance in the fireplace, noting how the candle's tiny flame echoed that dance, that Sherlock got a much better idea.

_Conclusion next chapter…_

_Esbe sent the candle prompt which is why this story ends with fire. Chocolamousse asked what happens when John[returns from his trip](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5402675/chapters/12598835) which is why this story starts with Dublin. (Yes, this is a ridiculously extended Advent. Again.)_


	14. Dublin, Part the Second

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They kissed for awhile and John wondered how he'd not missed this, how anything could be _better_ than this, but he knew the answer. Hunger makes food sumptuous, and arms feel all the fuller after brief emptiness.
> 
> After a while of full, fuller, fullest, John kissed his sweetheart's nose, then looked right at the third man in the room.
> 
> "Um, Sherlock...I have a question."

They were a whirlwind, those four days in Dublin.

Courtesy of their effervescent client Robbie, the good doctor Watson met a prime minister, a literary agent, and three new clients.

During this time John fell in love with a six stone Newfoundland, sent Sherlock a crazy-puzzle of a mystery, and attended a raucous 'going away' party for Robbie's brother before reassignment surgery.

John also regaled strangers with tales of crime-fighting derring-do, got a touch of food poisoning, and drank too much at three Christmas parties and a baptism.

He attended the exhibition of a kind of modern art he hopes to never see again, read through chapters of the book about Sherlock he's diddled with for years, and in general did not have even one spare minute to miss his one true love for the entirety of the four days he was away from London.

But that was fine, just fine of course, for lovers do indeed flourish on their own, and blooming bright under other suns is a gift a man brings back to the man he loves, John knows.

So while he was away John bloomed and he laughed and he fell in love with a big black dog who slept on his chest, and it was only when his cab pulled up outside 221B that John's heart thrummed erratic, that he missed Sherlock's everything, all of it, his touch, his voice, his needs and wants, his mad love of body parts and flouncing, of fire and biscuits and puzzles and _him._

Even so, instead of bounding up, John climbed those seventeen familiar steps tip-toe quiet, one part happily weary, one part on tenterhooks, apparently expecting to find just what he found when he entered the flat, and that was this:

Half of all the clothing he owned scattered on the floor in front of a dancing fire.

Every pillow in the place strewn amongst the mess like so much puffy wreckage.

And Sherlock Holmes, fast asleep in front of the flames, cuddling a life-sized…John Watson.

John blinked, just once and quite slowly, as if to clear his eyes of whatever aerosol-gas-hallucinogen Sherlock may have set free in the flat.

He then moved silently near and looked down. Finally he grinned and whispered, "You mad hatter, you strange storybook man."

John thinks he's forgotten most of the films he's seen dozens of years back, thinks he doesn't remember one scene, a lavish, lovely kiss between two men in front of a fireside, but deep down John remembers Maurice Hall scooping up a tousle-haired Alec Scudder in firelight shadows and…

…like a scene in a movie he half-recalls, John gathered his dozy love from his cloth cocoon down there by the fire, and Sherlock shudder-sighed awake, wrapped a long arm round John's neck, and they held tight awhile, kissing close, a pillow-plump pseudo-John rolling away as John tugged Sherlock tall and into his arms.

They rocked together, a slow sway, and kissed like the heroes of their own love story, warm and messy, then full of laughter and pushed back fringe.

"What are you doing on the floor you silly creature? What are you doing hugging…"

They tripped sideways when John tried to toe his pillow doppelganger, then down they went with a whoosh and a soft thud amidst a mound of dirty laundry and in reflex Sherlock saved Pillow John from the mayhem, rolling them both toasty-close to fireplace flames and a lone, burned out candle.

They kissed for awhile and John wondered how he'd not missed this, how anything could be _better_ than this, but he already knew the answer. Hunger makes food sumptuous, and arms feel all the fuller after brief emptiness.

After a while of full, fuller, fullest, John kissed his sweetheart's nose, looked right, poked the belly of the third man in the room. "You made a me, Sherlock. With pillows and my jeans and shirts and things you…you made a mock-up me."

Sherlock hmmmed and nuzzled John's hair and for all practical purposes purred. "Couldn't sleep."

John fingered his facsimile. "Is he…is he wearing my _dirty_ laundry? Is his belly stuffed with my dirty underpants, Sherlock? Oh god you made those nasty bile socks his hands. Jeez, you could have snuggled a hot water bottle you know, or that nice fleece blanket Haddad gave us last Christmas."

("Pink? Why is this blanket _pink_ John? The colour doesn't suit my complexion, it doesn't suit _your_ complexion, and it—" "Shush you big twit, we're not going to _wear_ it. And it has little magnifying glasses on it, see? Now say thank you, damn it." "I…it…Thank you Haddad.")

Sherlock grumbled. "Water bottles and blankets don't feel like you."

John was not sure unclean clothes stuffed with sofa cushions and more unclean clothes 'felt' like him, but he said nothing more. Instead he went on to chatter for awhile, talking about the who-what-where of his trip, about plans they should make, things they could do, ideas they ought to try, and Sherlock was a rare sort of still and quiet, running a slow, big hand across John's stubbled face.

Eventually the good doctor ran out of steam and stared at his twin, while Sherlock watched flames dance.

"Sherlock."

Loose-muscled, soft-boned, and half-drunk with endorphins and oxytocin, Sherlock hmmmed.

"My face… _its_ face…why is it the back of my waistcoat?"

"Hmmm."

Sherlock's limbs were dreamy. No, they were heavy. Heavy-dreamy, that was it. He wanted to just hmmm awhile and be heavy-dreamy, but Sherlock's a strong man, so he hefted his great big weighty appendages, rolled over in a mess of sloppy limbs, then by way of reply rubbed his face into John's waistcoat-silky hair and promptly fell asleep on John's chest, like a big, pale dog.

For about one hundred sweet years they both slept. Then Sherlock was pulled from a fine dream by muscles tense beneath him and a voice strident above him.

_"Sherlock."_

In an instant Sherlock deduced everything worth deducing. In another instant he weighed the pros and cons of pretending to be deaf, dead, or still sleeping, but John was busy shoving him off his chest and crawling toward the embers of the fire and saying at volume…

"Are these the ashes of my socks? Did you burn my socks you idiot? _Oh my god is this the tie I got in Spain?_ Sherlock, Sherlock I'm going to ki—where are you going? _Get back here!_ Sherlock!"

_Clarenight sent me the photo of the waistcoat, the back of which, as anyone would surmise, is as silky-soft as John's hair. Chocolamousse prompted with the words fireplace, snuggling, hot water bottle, and fleece blanket. Thank you both! P.S. The gorgeous "Maurice" kiss of which I speak is the[first fifteen seconds here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lh4OrFm3Cgs)._


	15. Guilty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes has three kinds of blushes.
> 
> John knows the where and when of each.

"Look at me Sherlock."

Sherlock does not look at John. Sherlock looks at his pillow. With his whole face.

"You'll asphyxiate, you numpty. Roll over and look at me please."

Sherlock rolls but does not look. Instead he tugs the duvet to his chin and squeezes his eyes shut, as if this will squirt the remnants of the morning's dream out his ears. He is blushing.

John snugs deeper under the duvet too, then squints in a deducing sort of way. He knows there are three kinds of Sherlock blushes.

The first and best is the pleasure kind. Sherlock is dusted with this cheek- and chest-pinkening blush during energetic crime solving, after sincere compliments, or when he's naked-wrestling with John.

There's also the now mercifully-rare confused blush. Caused when Sherlock is mortified at being mocked, belittled, or ignored, it mottles his cheeks with uneven red splotches.

Then there's Sherlock's guilty blush. John saw this one last night, after Sherlock 'accidentally' devoured Mrs. Hudson's second batch of Christmas biscuits. John has also seen this charming flush of cheek and ears after Sherlock has had a—

"—naughty sex dream, my love?"

Eyes still shut tight, Sherlock nods, pressing his face back into his pillow. Undaunted John begins guessing at the dream's particulars.

Very soon they are in a whisper argument as to what 'sphincter' can and can not be used to describe, this progresses to a giggling insistence that they'd need _three_ penises to do _that,_ until finally, with a series of teases, tickles, and terrible guesses, John succeeds in getting Sherlock to confess.

He pulls his blushing beloved close. "Is _that_ all? That's nothing to feel guilty about, silly man. If you showed up at my door with a piping hot pizza I'd want you to do _exactly_ that."

To prove his sincerity John begins to knead Sherlock's…dough. It starts to rise.

"…after all, I do so have a weakness for pretty pizza delivery boys."

_Girlwhowearsglasses kinda prompted with 'pizza delivery boy AU' and though I meant this to be a 221B (hence the final word), I think, uh, over the holidays John and Sherlock house-sat at (counts words of fic) 325B Baker Street._


	16. Mating Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What in the world was _that?"_
> 
> "Oh you must've heard them before. The shop's nearly right below."
> 
> Mr. Chatterjee studied the ceiling in Lizzie's dark bedroom. "No my Christmas angel, I have heard many things from those two young men, but I have not before heard that."

  
"What in the world was _that?"_

Elizabeth Hudson opened dreamy eyes, reflected that once again Nanda's magic fingers had done a marvellous job with her hip. She rolled over, peered up at his shadowy, sitting form. "Oh you must've heard them before. The shop's nearly right below."

  
Mr. Chatterjee studied the ceiling in Lizzie's dark bedroom, as if he could see through to the midnight flat above. "No my Christmas angel, I have heard many things from those two young men, but I have not before heard that."

'That' had been a man's brief, throaty bellow. Something rather like a moose call.

Mrs. Hudson giggled and it was then Mr. Chatterjee realised he'd spoken this last thought aloud.

Ever since their old Doncaster misunderstanding, Nanda was ever-keen on making Lizzie laugh, so he reclined again beside his paramour, and grinned. "As you know, I've visited with many moose during my years in the wilds of Manitoba. That, my very dear, was a moose in the throes of his passion."

Liz giggled harder, pressed her mirth to Mr. Chatterjee's chest, anxious that the boys not hear. The strangest sounds carried in this old house and she might shout unheeded during Sherlock's noisy two a.m. experiments, then simply squeak after burning her wrist on a baking pan only to find John at her door with antiseptic cream and plasters.

Neither here nor there though, as Lizzie took the precaution of smothering her giggles in the soft-firm pillow of Mr. Chatterjee's warm body. "I think a koala bear," she said. "I once heard—well I saw it on BBC3—a koala make a sort of throaty little call and it sounded just like that."

Mr. Chatterjee pressed a hand over his own giggling mouth, then whispered through his fingers, "Then that must have been Mr. Watson just now, what with his fuzzy bear-like jumpers!"

"No, no, it's Sherlock!" Lizzie cackled, miming a mane of fluffy hair.

"No, no my precious, of course Mr. Holmes is a peacock! Or a lyrebird! All proud, pretty tail as he struts and calls for his mate!"

Lizzie curled into a little ball, smothered her hysterics with both hands. "Oh! I'm telling Shelock you think his tail is pretty!"

Nanda knew his darling dear was joshing, yet his own guilty conscience—really, how could you _not_ notice Mr. Holmes'…tail…with Mr. Watson grinning at it like that some days?—had him rasping, "No, no, he's a frog!

Lizzie keened and Nanda hissed, as if sharing the naughtiest secret he knew, "Just yesterday morning he croaked at me 'Hurry hurry with those coffees Mr. Chatterjee, I've left John right where I want him!'"

Liz clutched her belly and shook her head so hard she nearly rolled off the bed. "Stop, oh stop!"

But nothing was sweeter than his darling dear gasping happily—Mr. Chatterjee knew this quite intimately—and so he didn't stop and he didn't stop and neither did she, and so the woman and the man titillated one another with secret giggles and teasing touches and silly jokes until the giggles turned to sighs and the teases to intent and before long they too were calling, mating soft and sweet and slow.

*

Elizabeth Hudson and Nanda Chatterjee are each quite suited to the lives they lead. It is therefore understandable that neither woman nor man is particularly suited to detection or to deduction, a gift best reserved, it seems, for fluffy-haired consulting detectives.

So, in their mirthful midnight game of deducing a man's moans, they got it wrong. Lizzie Hudson and Nanda Chatterjee, they got it very wrong.

_…to be continued…_

_This storyline resolves next chapter and though angsty, all will be well. In the meantime, thank you DaringD for the prompty-comment about Mrs. Hudson and Mr. Chatterjee "being inadvertently serenaded by the mating song of the World's Only Consulting Detective and his Blogger."_


	17. Sehnsucht

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There once was a little boy. He was an unusual child, this boy, he felt things, strange things.
> 
> Bad things.

There once was a little boy. He was an unusual child, this boy, he felt things, strange things.

Bad things.

Things like a cold, sharp thrill when he heard two kids shouting cruel at one another, things like heart-thrumming excitement when he waded in to break those fist-flailing kids apart.

The bad thing got worse as the boy grew. Eventually he _looked_ for the fights, _listened_ for the shouts, he ran toward mayhem instead of away, adrenaline jolting his heart to triple-time.

It was because of this and for the very longest time that John Watson was sure he was bad, sure it was the violence he craved, the pain. He wasn't even sixteen when he looked up the words psychopath and lunatic and sadist, afraid he'd recognise himself in their definitions.

He didn't.

Somehow that didn't help.

What did was movement, so John moved. To Manchester, then Edinburgh, then London. He started to study medicine.

It helped.

John was a good surgeon. His hands were steady, his voice soft. The surgical nurses used to joke about that.

In the end it didn't help _enough,_ so John moved again. First to Pirbright, then Afghanistan, each courtesy of the Royal Army Medical Corp.

It was in Afghanistan that John finally figured out something vital. Turning toward a shout, running toward a fight? These didn't make him bad. No, these were the motions of a man going toward _purpose,_ a man being of _use._ With this revelation he was finally able to stop moving.

Then one day it was John shouting and it was a stranger running toward him, her heart thrum-thrumming with purpose as she spoke softly and pressed steady hands over his bullet wound.

* * *

John walked after he got back. From the river to Regent's Park, from east London to Earl's Court. He walked and he had panic attacks, horrible moments of PTSD, he moaned with phantom aches in his _other_ arm, his _other_ leg.

Then one day he stopped walking and looked up, listening to seagulls call overhead. He couldn't see them in the overcast sky, but standing under a winter-bare tree in Hyde Park, listening to their plaintive cry, he realised he too was crying and that all he wanted in the world was to go home. John just wanted to go home.

But he didn't know where it was.

* * *

John always wakes from nightmares rigid, silent, hollow with fear. Then he'll hear Mrs. Hudson's telly, a car horn down below, or Sherlock will snort-snore, and in the dark John slowly slots himself back into reality.

Except.

Tonight was different. He woke and there was no telly or horn or Sherlock to ground him. So fear clogged his throat, sweat slicked him cold, and he was still there under a leaf-bare tree, looking into a cloud-grey sky and wanting the one thing he didn't have.

John made a noise then, it must have been then, a sound almost sensual, throaty and loud and deep. He put a hand over his own mouth. Then suddenly Sherlock was in the doorway, then crawling onto their bed, shoes still on his feet, purple nitrile gloves on his hands, and Sherlock held John, rocked him, hummed to him. He whispered endearments and made promises and finally seagulls stopped calling, cold leeched away, and John pressed his face against a warm chest beneath which a stout heart thrummed, and John slotted himself back into reality, remembering the most important thing he will ever know.

He's found home.

It's called Sherlock.

_They say sehnsucht is the inconsolable longing for we know not what, a yearning for a land one can identify as home. I think most of his life this has been John's search. Sometimes nightmares bring back the echo of that longing and his heart forgets what it knows: He's home. Sherlock is home._


	18. Nailed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wiggled his fingers and Lestrade wondered: What did those pale hands remind him of suddenly? They were familiar somehow. As if he'd seen them somewhe—ah! It was that Medieval exhibit at the V&A last month. All those paintings of royal ladies and their white, narrow hands.
> 
> Sherlock's hands looked like royal lady hands. A lot.
> 
> Which explained so, so much.

Six suited elbows rested on the police conference table. The three detectives they belonged to sat round that table, post-case slumped, and staring at the hands of Sherlock Holmes.

The first detective, Mr. Gregory Lestrade, wondered a few things. Probably not the things the other two were wondering. The things Greg wondered were:

Did Sherlock shave his hands? Seriously, did he? Didn't most men have hair somewhere on their hands? They did, didn't they? Lestrade snuck a look at the back of John's hands. Yes, there it was, peaking from the cuff of his coat. Some hair. A bit.

But _Sherlock._

Lestrade squinted again. Sherlock's wrists and hands were, they were… _creamy._ Smooth and pale and, and yeah, creamy.

Sherlock wiggled his fingers and Lestrade wondered: What did those hands remind him of suddenly? They were familiar somehow. As if he'd seen them somewhe—ah! That Medieval exhibit at the V&A last month. All those paintings of royal ladies and their white, narrow hands. Sherlock's hands looked like royal lady hands. A lot. Which explained so, so much. Sherlock even occasionally wore velvet. It suited him.

Well, everything suited Sherlock really, including this weird stuff on his nails. Lestrade wasn't going to say that, about the suiting. Not out loud. He wasn't embarrassed about it really, but he was still smarting a bit after that snarky letter to the _Illustrated Police Gazette._ The writer had called him Sherlock's "fanpoodle." Greg didn't even know what fanpoodle _meant._ It had all the earmarks of not good, though.

Anyway.

Lestrade wondered what John and Sherlock were wondering. About Sherlock's hands. Probably something smart. Something detective-y.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes does not like trompe l'oeil. Anything purpose-designed to fool the eye infuriates him. There's an artist near Trafalgar Square, one who does chalk art on the pavement. Her drawings make you think you're looking down into the ninth circle of hell, standing at the edge of a plunging waterfall, or gazing deep into the geared heart of a machine.

John will often stop to look, but Sherlock strides grumpily past. The skill to trick is not a skill Sherlock admires. A detective must see what he's seeing, whether it's the sudden gleam on the barrel of a suspect's gun, or the heart-steadying gleam of his husband's grin in alley shadow moments after that moronic suspect has fired his gun. In short, a man needs to trust his eyes, and so Sherlock looked at his own nails and scowled.

Yes the glass nail art was striking, yes it had helped them nab the cosmetics tycoon, _but a man's hands ought to be sacrosanct._ A man ought to be able to look at his own fingernails and still see the bruise from when he dropped a tea mug on his thumb, see the other bruise from when John bit his finger while he fingered John in a coat cupboard. What a man should emphatically not do is look at his own fingernails and see something "lovely as a stained glass window."

Yet that's precisely what they looked like. Like jewel-toned glass, not bits of painted plastic. That was just not on.

Sherlock scowled harder.

* * *

John is interested in Sherlock.

He's interested in Sherlock's brain, that fiery brain that collects, collates, concludes, then crows gleeful about it. John's interested in his words, the high-pitched revelations, the mad babbling rushes, the night-soft pleas. And the good doctor is interested in Sherlock's wants and needs, the ones he can fulfill, the ones he can't.

Another thing John Hamish Watson is interested in is Sherlock's body. The navel inside which a jewel so snuggly fits when he's impersonating a belly dancer. The hip and jaw that seem sharp and soft both when [swirled with mehndi](http://archiveofourown.org/works/463676/chapters/800046) as they track an arsonist. The rings Sherlock has worn on every finger, the silks and [heels](http://archiveofourown.org/works/513243/chapters/905268) and gold lamé and lip stain and shadow and suspenders and the anything, everything, or nothing that gilds his beautiful lanky lily…oh in these John Watson is endlessly and always interested.

And so.

John looked at Sherlock's fingernails, the glisten of them, the spark and shine, and he reflected how beautifully those nails and the hands to which they belonged, how beautifully they'd moved tonight. Sinuous, pale, they'd been cobras that had mesmerised a thief who should have known better but didn't.

John reflected how Sherlock never moves with more grace than when he knows John is watching, when he wants and needs _John's_ want and need. Oh then Sherlock moves like a queen.

Finally, John reflected on how gorgeous Sherlock's gem-like nails would look in the soft blaze of Christmas fairy lights, hands clutched in his own dark hair as he moaned. Yes, on that John reflected quite a bit.

After a suitable time for these lip-licking contemplations, John glanced up.

Greg's eyebrows were perched high on his forehead as he studied Sherlock's hands. Sherlock's big brows were a lowering storm over his eyes as he did the same.

John couldn't imagine what they were thinking. Probably something smart. Something detective-y.

John looked down again and went back to his daydreams.

_I didn't know about glass nail art until Esbe prompted me with "nail varnish" and that unearthed these. Sherlock's glorious hands would look marvelous adorned this way and I gathered photos of Benedict's hands to prove my point.[bigger proof here](http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/post/139725500814/fic-nailed-sherlock-wiggled) and [other prettiness here](http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/post/139726051599/for-anyone-who-thought-perhaps-benedicts-hands). P.S. That really is Ben's hand on the radio. Looks so much like the Da Vinci lady's hand, doesn't it?_


	19. Spy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Oh _god."_
> 
> "Darling, darling, darling."
> 
>  _"My_ god."
> 
> "Wonderful thing, wonderful thing."
> 
> _"Oh. Ooooh."_

Sandra Rahmanzai half-hid in the back room, like a spy.

"I'm kind of hiding in the back," she whispered, "like a spy."

On the other end of the phone, Sandy's flatmate asked about twenty-eight questions in two seconds.

"Wait, wait, wait. What? Oh, I don't know, hang on."

Sandra pressed her mobile to her chest, tiptoed forward, then peered over the pastries case.

"Oh _god."_

"Darling, darling, darling."

 _"My_ god."

"Wonderful thing, wonderful thing."

_"Oh. Ooooh."_

"Sweet, sweet, sweet thing."

Sandy put the phone to her ear, cupped her hand over her mouth. "They're saying stuff. Darling and sweetness and stuff. Then moaning."

Matty squealed in her ear then said a bunch more things.

"Um, let me see."

The barista peeked over the pastries again. She watched the big one gently bang his head on the cafe table. The little one crooned endearments and rocked in his chair.

Sandy squinted hard. Matthew had a crush on the little one. Or maybe it was the big one. Whichever one was Holmes. Or Watson. She could never remember.

"One of them's smacking his forehead onto the table and giggli—hu? What does BAMF mean? Oh. Well no, then it's not that one. It's the other one. With the hair."

Just then, the one with the hair clutched it. A fistful of lank, sweaty curls. Droopy, dirty, seen-better-days curls. He grabbed a big handful and made a high-pitched sound as he took another huge swallow of his Jingle Bell Mint Mocha Latte, extra whip no sprinkles. He was so loud about it even Matty heard him.

"What?" Sandy shoved a finger in her ear. "Hu?" She couldn't hear anything over the sudden symphony because the other one was in on it now, the blonde bloke. He was tonguing at his droopy mountain of cream, then kind of sucking it, and clutching at the other one's sleeve and—

"I don't know!" Sandy whisper-hissed into the mobile. "It's not like I can ask them. No one else is here. I was meant to close a half hour ago but they. They. This. They've been at this for twenty-five minutes. With the drinks. Talking to the—"

The big one finished his second peppermint mocha latte extra whip no sprinkles and stood up. Sandy thought something was going to happen.

"Something's going to happen," she whispered sotto voce. Matthew squealed and said like eighteen things.

The one with the dark, droopy hair didn't stand up for long. No, he kind of went belly-down on the little cafe table. He leaned toward the blonde one who leaned toward him.

"The big one's—what? Right, okay, John and Sherlock. Well Sherlock, he's kind of draped over…"

Sandra Rahmanzai stopped speaking. She might not know which one of these kind of famous guys Matty was hard for, she might not know that they'd just finished a four day case that had left them victorious but hungry, exhausted and in deep, deep need of caffeine and sugar, but Sandra Rahmanzai does know what foreplay looks like.

The way the big o—the way Sherlock was reaching for the sma—for John, and licking the whipped cream off his face and the way John was kind of panting and opening his mouth and sucking on Sherlock's skin all at the same time, yes. Well.

Sandra Rahmanzai did the polite thing just then. She half-hid in the back room again. And when the big one started a little bit humping the table, Sandy started filming with her phone.

Kind of like a spy.

_221b_hound prompted with the photo and then Poppy Alexander may have said something about a no!endearments fic and coffee porn. It's all a blur at this point. P.S. If you haven't,[would you please](http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/post/140302743626/a-few-words-or-many-one-star-or-fiveits)? Thank you._


	20. Deck the Halls With Boughs On Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Any man who lives with a man like Sherlock Holmes must pick his battles. 
> 
> So a man can either run screaming about the place because some part of his house is on fire, or he can save his energies for the things that are _actually_ likely to kill him. 
> 
> Such as…

A man does not wish to wake with his house on fire.

So John pretends to sleep.

Some would call this unwise, given the dangers of smoke and flame. John would call it a survival strategy. For any man who lives with a man like Sherlock Holmes must pick his battles. A man can either run screaming about the place because some part of his house is on fire, or he can save his energies for the things that are _actually_ likely to kill him.

Things like the frustration he feels when another jumper is sacrificed to another acid spill.

Things like the blood pressure spike he experiences when mistaking blanched human fingers for mozzarella sticks. Again.

And things like being sexually teased for four hours by a tuxedoed Sherlock and then not getting the promised rogering because the heiress chose _that_ party from which to abscond with the rubies, leading them on a merry chase through Hampstead Heath for half the night.

So. Right. Compared to these and many more like them, the conflagrations Sherlock accidentally starts in the sink, behind the sofa, or in the tub? These are almost a holiday.

So, eyes still closed, John turns over in bed and falls serenely back to sleep.

For a restful forty seconds.

It is then John's subconscious finally lets him know that something's wrong.

Something important.

John wakes but frowns his eyes more tightly closed.

He waits.

For revelation.

John's not often as quick as Sherlock, but he doggedly does get there. And he's quieter about the getting there than Sherlock, so sometimes he _does_ get there quicker. Like now.

_Fire extinguisher._

John opens his eyes.

Though there is in the flat the sound of hungry flame being fed John now realises there has not yet been the almost-sensual hiss of a fire extinguisher being emptied onto the blaze.

John frowns his eyes closed again and thinks.

_* 23 November_

They had been dancing in the kitchen. Because John thought dancing made a very nice 'fuck you' to nights now falling at sodding half four. One thing led to another and they accidentally danced into the kitchen table. Test tubes tipped over.

Blue stuff mixed with brown stuff and the resulting fire had required an entire CO2 extinguisher. John had replaced it a couple days later.

So. Right. They had the right tools for that sort of job. This meant that there was not now some sort of chemical burning.

_* 4 December_

The less said about "I'm just trying to tidy up like you _asked_ me to do! You didn't say _how,_ you just shouted _do_ and then stomped out of the house! Like a tiny blonde bull!" the better.

Sherlock claimed he hadn't even known metal could catch fire that easily. John restocked the dry powder extinguisher later that day.

So. Nothing metallic was burning.

_* 5-6 December_

Sherlock did not seem capable of tidying the flat without accidentally setting things on fire. John bought a vapourising liquids extinguisher.

_* 23 December_

John had done a bit of Christmas baking. Sherlock had done a bit of neck nuzzling while he did. John had become distracted, then erect, then shouty, then a boneless pudding, all within 21 minutes.

This turned out to be three minutes too long for the biscuits, a dozen of which caught fire inside the oven.

Sherlock put that one out with one of their water extinguishers.

_* 25 December_

John finally opens his eyes. Somehow this makes the smoke-smell stronger.

He gets out of bed, slips on his slippers. He scuffs naked toward the snapping sound of ravenous flames.

He finds Sherlock kneeling in front of the fireplace, poking at a merry blaze. A large AFFF foam extinguisher stands proud and festively red on the mantel. It has a big silver bow on.

John kneels behind his one true love. He nuzzles the back of Sherlock's neck. "I love my Christmas present."

Sherlock glances at the extinguisher, then whispers, as if an endearment, "Now we have the whole set."

John keeps nuzzling. Eventually Sherlock gets distracted. Then erect.

Neither of them notice the hot fireplace poker has set a Christmas bough on fire, not until after Sherlock is done being shouty.

The AFFF foam extinguisher works a treat.

_ButterscotchCandybatch wanted a festive bit of accidental burning. That seemed a blazingly good idea. At least this time it wasn't Sherlock's crotch on fire. And no, that is[not even a euphemism](http://archiveofourown.org/works/481967/chapters/886474). (P.S. [If you have time...)](http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/post/140302743626/a-few-words-or-many-one-star-or-fiveits)_


	21. Shag for Babies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock loves interesting things. 
> 
> The thing John had said was an interesting thing. 
> 
> And the way John had said it—almost reverently—oh that was the most interesting bit of all.

"John, I'm ovulating."

That's how the conversation started. Not _hello John, how are you doing, it's been what—five years? I heard you got married, congrats!_

No, Sakurako "Kip" Wong skipped the pleasantries and jumped right in, just as she'd always done in Afghanistan. Fearless and stupid and brave, she was a lot like someone else John knew, except Sherlock hadn't lost two fingers pulling a boy from under a bombed bus, and Sherlock wasn't ovulating.

So far as John knew.

"How do I make sure I get pregnant, John? I'm forty next month and Tommy's thirty-nine and we're ready to shag for babies. It's kind of like our New Year's resolution."

John giggled, opened his mouth to answer, then grunt-huffed. Because though Sherlock probably wasn't ovulating, he _was_ —

"—famished John, weak in the knees with hunger, a-tremble and in need of goat's cheese and aubergine manicotti, can't you walk bloody _faster?"_

Which is to say Sherlock was currently a cheekboned ship under full sail, fast-walking toward Angelo's and literally dragging John after.

So John grunt-huffed and giggled and half-jogged down the pavement after his peckish love, all the while giving a fearless, stupid, brave woman advice on getting pregnant.

* * *

Angelo's was full up when they got there.

John'll take some blame for that because, right after he answered a blog reader's question about spots to eat out in London, Angelo told him a good two dozen of those readers actually showed up.

It was fine, it was all fine. Though the place was festive with hungry holiday crowds and there were at least eight people ahead of them, Billy brought everyone garlicky bread to nosh and so John clutched that little basket of baguette slices to his belly and he and his one true love chewed in serene contentment.

Then Sherlock started talking.

"What does it mean?"

Sure that Sherlock was being philosophical about the bread, John sucked at his buttery fingers.

"John?"

Because this glorious bread was worth philosophising over.

"John?"

It had just the right amount of piquant garlic.

"John?"

The butter was so, so _buttery._

"John?"

The bread was even perfectly toasted.

"John Watson-Holmes!"

"What!"

_"What is the difference between shagging and shagging for babies?"_

Listen, at the best of times Sherlock's inside voice is not very… _insidey._ He's a passionate man and the passionate tend to underestimate their volume. As such, John tends to compensate for that volume by stopping any sort of movement whatsoever. He does this on instinct, because he's long since learned that if he doesn't breathe or blink or acknowledge what Sherlock's just said, people often presume they've misheard what Sherlock just said.

"I understood everything you told Kip about ovulation, menstruation, hormonal balances, sperm count, sexual positions, implantation and fertilization, obviously." Sherlock plucked up another piece of garlic bread, seemed to swallow the entire thing without chewing. "I just didn't understand how shagging was different from shagging for babies."

By now half the group up ahead had turned to look at them. John realised that pretending was clearly not going to work.

"Sherlock," he whispered, blocking both the nosey Nellies and the baguette basket with his body. "If you don't stop speaking I'll be forced to eat the rest of this glorious bread. I don't want to do that love, I want to share. But I need you to…could you just bloody well be quiet for a minute, please? _Please?"_

Greasy fingers only inches from garlic heaven, Sherlock struggled. He was ravenous. He was also curious. In precisely equal measure. And he was not now nor had he ever been good at delayed gratification.

Sherlock glanced at the brown, crusty, glorious bread. The bread was beautiful. He wanted more of that.

"Sherlock."

Yet Sherlock loves interesting things. And the thing John had said was an interesting thing. The way John had said it—almost reverently—was the most interesting bit of all.

"Sherlock."

Why did he have to choose? Why was John blocking the bread? What _was_ shagging for babies? Could he—

_"Sherlock Holmes-Watson."_

"What!"

John blinked. He had no idea what he was going to say. Fortunately it was then that Angelo appeared, as if an angel.

He took them to their table. They ordered. They ordered rather a lot. They asked for wine. And a candle. Angelo clapped gleeful. He brought them more bread. They fell upon it like men starving.

It was during a quiescent moment of deep sighs that John picked up his wine glass and ruminated at it. "Shagging for babies," he said softly, "well, I've been told that it's…it's not anything like fucking and it's much more than making love. It's, mmm, making love full throttle. It's having at each other with so much passion and verve and desire that the loving becomes an _event."_

Sherlock stopped chewing, or moving, or breathing. Then he leaned across their little table and thunked his forehead against John's. Warm, garlicky breath gusted hot across John's cheeks. "Please," whispered Sherlock, "please John, can we go home and shag for babies?"

A shadow fell across their table.

Two heavy carrier bags thunked on to the checkered cloth.

John and Sherlock looked up, Angelo grinned down.

"There's half a tiramisu in the yellow one; lots of cream, delicious cream." Angelo plucked an unlighted candle from an empty table, slipped it in beside the liquored sponge. He winked at them, then whispered, "Happy new year."

* * *

They fast-walked home, horny ships under sail.

They put a duvet down and fed each other in front of the fire. The manicotti was delicious.

The tiramisu, well they turned that into something of an event.

_This story was prompted by Random Nexus who, a thousand years go, wanted Sherlock to ask John what the difference was between shagging and shagging for babies. She then provided the brilliant definition. Thank you Random!_


	22. Snow Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Look, it snowed today,” whispered John. Beside him Sherlock said nothing, avidly watched everything.
> 
> Good, that was good, and just what John wanted, because…

It doesn't much snow in London.

It used to. "I remember," remembers Lestrade, "back when I had my 'too cool for you,' stage. I wore leather jackets with nothing under but a vest. The snow was on the ground for weeks and my lips were always blue. What an idiot I must've looked."

Right, so it doesn't much snow in London any more, but…

"Look, it snowed today," whispered John. Beside him Sherlock said nothing, avidly watched everything.

Good, that was good, and just what John wanted. It's why he'd brought Sherlock to this tiny B&B slash apiary in north London, a sort of further education college for beekeepers.

Today's lesson had been how to roll bees in icing sugar to check for varroa mites. The sugar didn't hurt the bees, but it left them looking as if they'd been caught in a tiny snow storm.

By the end of that long new year's weekend, Sherlock was pretty much glowing, and John had pretty much caught up on all his reading.

Just before dinner that final night Sherlock nuzzled John gently, asked him softly, "Bored, John?"

"A tiny bit. I don't mind."

"Why?"

"Hmmm," John hummed. "Because I get to imagine it's snowing in London. Because being here makes you happy. Because," he whispered gently, "because you're my little sugar bee."

_This 221B wonderfully inspired by wonderful KeeblerMC, who keeps bees and shares the most fascinating things, including this fantastic photo of a sugar dusting she did ([bigger version here](https://40.media.tumblr.com/01e653e55ad0838031fb3cff74390cc6/tumblr_o41e7ocGmX1qja1bno1_1280.jpg)). Thank you Keebler!_


	23. Cheshire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes all a man has to do is ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the wonderful 221b_hound and inspired by her glorious [Unimagined](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6336883), as well as our mutual life-is-busy challenge to write at least 221Bs!

Sometimes he smiles in his sleep, does John Watson.

They're tiny things, mysterious. In the early years, curled round his husband like a lanky limpet, Sherlock tried to simply deduce the provenance of those dawn grins.

He'd gather clues with feathery-phantom touches over wrists, lips, cock, yet as often as not John's body was in these places quiescent. Clearly further evidence was needed, so Sherlock took to peering so close and lying so still that John began to jar awake, anxious, "What's wrong?" the first words from his mouth.

So Sherlock changed tactics. When spying those curious Cheshire grins, he gathered evidence with fidgets, murmurs, soft kicks. John always slept on.

Still, Sherlock didn't learn the why of those morning smiles—dreams obviously, but of _what?_

Then one December day John woke, whispered, "Use your words."

Still, _still_ so intent to go about things the hard way, Sherlock scowled and said nothing. Then John did what John does, taught his love a lesson. He said nothing back.

"I want," Sherlock grumbled, "to deduce why sometimes you smile in your sleep."

"I expect it's because sometimes you hum like a bee in _yours."_

It'll take Sherlock years yet to learn that asking is not cheating. That words work. That along with phantom touches, kisses, cuddles, that words, words too are their bond.

_This story was inspired by 221b_hound's wonderful prompt of 'bond,' and Apliddell's sleep-smiling Sherlock, in her flawless[The Only One in the World; I Invented the Job](http://archiveofourown.org/works/691284/chapters/1270251)._


	24. Threesome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The twelve days of Christmas are not all they're cracked up to be...

_Take care with this substance, as the magnitude of its reaction is often expressed inversely to the mass of the input._

John will have this tattooed on his forehead one day. Today is not that day but tomorrow looks good, so John's on Google right now, searching for tat shops near…wherever they are.

John hunts for a street sign, forgetting he lives in London and London apparently saves important money by saving on the number of street signs.

Anyway, once John knows where he is, he'll get that tat. Well, after these three cases are closed, which should be about an hour from the time Sherlock stops having this particular tantrum.

Because when Sherlock is over-extended he _over-extends._ If he's stupid-in-the-head from three-case exhaustion the answer isn't rest, it's five ristrettos, one for every hour, until Sherlock is so tightly strung he yells at Lestrade for blinking too slowly, and at a new constable for having an extra-long shadow.

So when Sherlock imperiously points and demands John fetch him another coffee, John Watson does as he's told.

Sort of.

He almost gets away with it too, except for the part where he doesn't get away with it at all, and Sherlock is suddenly hollering at the top of his high-pitched lungs, _"OH MY GOD DID YOU JUST GIVE ME A BABYCCINO?"_

* * *

The entire reason John and Sherlock even had three cases bam-bam-bam, is because, apparently, jewel thieves, art thieves, and thieves of state secrets _take holidays._

Which means that for all of December and on through to the twelfth day of Christmas there was not one intriguing crime-like thing happening in all of London. Which meant that, by the time lively felonies were again on the rise, Sherlock Holmes had exhausted every stimulating diversion capable of distracting him.

This included reverse engineering the remnants of the penguin ornament Mrs. Hudson had given them, until it looked like a patch-work zombie and made gratifyingly zombie-like moaning noises.

This also included reverse engineering John's festive murder jumper until it was six separate balls of coloured yarn, all of which he gave to Mrs. Turner so that she could make them more bee penis socks.

Added to this was Sherlock showing his sweetheart how to make a Pillow Sherlock to go with what was left of Pillow John and after that they both swore they were going to do the dirty laundry but they didn't.

Finally, the only diversion capable of distracting Sherlock was when _John_ needed distraction and set about trying to see which kind of shagging for babies made Sherlock sigh, which made him moan, and which had him howling like a banshee.

* * *

"—but there's a clue there, and there, and right there _Mister_ Holmes. They're covering the entire minging crime scene like a blanket!"

Sherlock glared at the not-Lestrade person until she started fidgeting, then frowning, then doing lots of angry blinking.

For twenty seconds this went on. Then forty. When it looked like Sherlock and not-Lestrade (her name's Copper, which is an unfortunate/fortunate name for a copper, depending) would go upward of a minute glare-frowning, John stepped between them, a body-block.

Which did nothing. Because both Sherlock Holmes and Oni Copper are just a shade over six foot and John Hamish Watson is five foot seven, barely.

Which turns out to be fine actually, because the good doctor has never needed height to command a room, no. As it happens, when John H. Watson is annoyed and hungry, John H. Watson is also a god damned BAMF.

So, instead of pointing out to Sherlock that the rookie constable was correct and this particular crime scene wasn't even a two, John Watson did something else entirely. He spoke the truth, bald-faced.

"Sherlock Holmes-Watson, we're leaving now. I'm annoyed. I'm also so hungry I'd at this juncture eat bees. If you say good night, take me home, then feed me, I will let you do fifteen, forty, and eight on your sexual bucket-list."

_Yes, this is a threesome of 221Bs, I've no idea why. So, the uber-cutely-named babyccino is a cappuccino minus the coffee, banshee was a prompt from 221b_hound (and while I was at it, that 221B referred back to four stories in this Advent), and for the final 221B Verity Burns gave me seven prompts, so I decided to end every paragraph of the last 221B with a B-word. I did, in a cheaty sort of way. Go me!_


	25. It's the End of the Year As We Know It, and I Feel Fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock’s not sure why he hates post-year reflections.
> 
> Unlike figuring out why ants like John more than they like him, or why bees like him more than they like John, Sherlock does not care one whit why resolutions annoy him. What he cares about is doing anything other than this.
> 
> Sherlock eyes the fire.

Sherlock Holmes is willing to do many things for John Watson and do not even ask him to prove this. He will, you know he will, and you also know that that proof will probably include nudity, fire, or standing on a table-top while nude and waving fire.

The point is, Sherlock adores John and through the years he's found himself willing and able to give John the things that make John happy.

Except this.

This thing, this one in particular, Sherlock would like to set on fire. With petrol. And a hammer. And some nasty invective, too.

Because Sherlock fucking _hates_ new year's resolutions and John inexplicably loves them. He'd probably hump the leg of one, Sherlock thinks, if Sherlock thought that way, but he doesn't so what Sherlock _really_ thinks is that this cute little Moleskine in front of him? It needs burning.

Which is, belly down on a blanket in front of the hearth, the very thing Sherlock's been daydreaming about for the last twenty minutes.

John must smell his arsonous thoughts though, because he keeps glancing at Sherlock as he does what he's asked Sherlock to do. What [he semi-always asks](http://archiveofourown.org/works/581769) each new year, right after Sherlock waves around the latest notepad and says, "What on earth do you expect me to do with this?"

The answer is the same every time—

"Make plans for the future, reflect on the best parts of the past."

—and every time Sherlock screws up his face as if someone's suggested he share the banoffee pie he stole that time ("I didn't steal it John, it's… _evidence.")_ from the baker-embezzler's flat.

Sherlock's not sure why he hates this post-year almost-tradition. Unlike figuring out why ants like John more than they like him, or why bees like _him_ more than they like John, Sherlock does not care one whit why resolutions annoy him. What he cares about is doing anything other than this.

Sherlock eyes the fire.

But no, he'll do it. He does it every year for the simple reason that John has asked and John doesn't ask for even half what Sherlock asks for and so _fine,_ he will make a list-like thing and he will do it with grace and gratitude and afterward he expects to be taken to the National Gallery Cafe for tea and a couple banoffee cupcakes and so fine.

_Fine._

**Things for Which Sherlock Holmes Was Grateful in 2015 Blah Blah**

1\. That John did not kill me for the toe thing.

It's not funny, the things that drive some people to murder, but Sherlock knows better than most how ridiculous the provocation can be. A misplaced ornamental salt shaker can do it, a tendency to hum the same Sinatra song for ten years may as well.

Knowing this, Sherlock also knows he was pretty lucky John didn't kill him dead on the spot when, last Easter, they attended the Met's picnic and John decided to take part in the coppers-against-civvies tug-o-war.

Stripping right on down to shorts and bare feet first had been necessary because spring rain left the park mud-mucky and any self-respecting tug-o-war should always lead to bums dragging on the ground and heels digging into the dirt.

Or, in the case of _this_ tug-o-war, it led to the civilians winning by a literal landslide because once a couple of the officers noticed John's bee-painted toenails every last one of them fell down in weak-limbed hysterics. The civvies routed them so badly three officers ended up getting dragged into the boating lake.

Yet no matter how many times John insisted that Sherlock had done it to him while he was asleep—"And yes I do apparently sleep deep enough that he could paint stripes and smiles and those little antenna _then_ get my socks and shoes back on me!"—no one believed him.

So overall Sherlock feels it was only sheer magnanimous restraint that prevented John from dismembering him, and instead he consumed a heroic quantity of beer and pretended to pollinate daffodils with his toes all afternoon.

* * *

Deep in thought for gratitude number two, Sherlock chewed a hangnail, distractedly ripped it off with his teeth, said 'ouch,' sucked at the blood, then glanced at John.

John raised questioning brows.

Sherlock wiggled his thumb.

John nodded and Sherlock knew number two.

2\. That I don't have to explain everything.

Sherlock's well-used to justifying, wanting, needing, demanding. When your brain finds flashes of insight in a footprint or the dregs of a coffee mug, you get used to trying to explain to others your what and why, your how and when.

The problem is, Sherlock's pretty bad at explaining.

Except with John. Because John gets it. Enough of it anyway. He gets what the skitter of Sherlock's gaze means, the tap-tap of his hand, he understands what's _missing_ when Sherlock's stroppy at a crime scene or yelling at everyone to just shut up.

So usually Sherlock doesn't have to explain to John when he needs to be left alone, or why there are eighteen stacks of playing cards on the sitting room floor, or why it's especially important the ten of hearts be surrounded by four queens.

Sherlock didn't even have to explain why trying on a priceless copper corset was necessary to figuring out who stole a Shakespeare folio, because in truth it _wasn't._ Yet John knew that Sherlock longed to touch the thing and after he put it on, Sherlock was so delighted—a change is as good as a rest, don't they say?—that he deduced the location of the folio twenty minutes later.

Which gave Sherlock his final entry.

3\. That John is John is John.

He's the strongest man alive is John, for no one else could lose so many jumpers to fire, so many nice mugs to acids, and so many panting breaths to Sherlock's languid teasing, not unless he had a hero's strength and a spine of the rarest iron.

He's the swearingest man is John and Sherlock knows no one else who can use foul language to both convey ire and deepest love. Like the time John showed his irk by calling a visiting detective a 'fuck-weaseled, monkey-brained moron,' and the _other_ time he expressed his ardour by calling Sherlock 'my luscious, big-arsed beauty.'

He's the biggest man in the room is John, and Sherlock knows that for a fact, after years of watching him stride-swagger-stroll across a crime scene or marketplace, looking seven foot tall as he shares a barely-there grin the moment his eyes light on his one true love.

And when Sherlock's eyes light on John, well Sherlock knows this: John Watson is the only man Sherlock Holmes will ever see.

As a matter of fact, that's Sherlock's plan for 2016. He's going to spend the rest of the year relishing John.

Sherlock feels this is a very good plan.

* * *

Cozy, smug, and imperious, Sherlock patted the little notepad affectionately then nudged John until he lifted his head from crossed arms, blinked warmth-sleepy eyes at Sherlock and said, "Finally done?"

While the 'finally' took some wind from Sherlock's self-satisfied sails, he didn't let it stop him from prying John's notepad from beneath his arms. After his own industrious industry Sherlock wanted to see John's list.

Except John's list wasn't a list at all.

It was a love letter.

**Why I Loved 2015 and What I Want for 2016**

Sherlock,

It's not often you find your place and purpose, it's rarer still to _know_ you have.

Living in London and running down its streets with you, stealing back my all-sorts from you, whiling away another chilly winter day snuggled down with you…all of that is what made 2015 perfect and more of that is all I need from 2016.

Because whether we're running around in the dark or resting up after doing nothing much, I've found my place and my purpose in the doing of it with you.

Not everyone needs someone, Sherlock, not everyone is lost. But I do, and I was. For awhile I figured that I'd settle for some facsimile of happy by settling for being content. Probably most people do.

Then there was you.

There's always you, there has always _been_ you, hasn't there? Because when I met you I knew you somehow. I knew you were…that you were meant to be a _we_ and that the other we was _me._ Does that make sense?

That case we had at the strip club in the autumn? (The straight club not the gay one. The straight one with the disco theme (holy fuck, how is it we had so many strip club cases that I have to make sure you know which one I mean?)). Anyway, that one with the platform heels and silver trousers and the glitter weave in your hair?

When I saw you in that getup I thought I was going to laugh, but I didn't. Instead I looked at you and I thought a couple things, Sherlock, I thought…

_How is this my life?_

Disco balls and wonky dance club crooks and us figuring out where and what and when by having to enter that ridiculous contest and then getting that bottle of champers from Boris Johnson which turned out to come from that woman with the stolen pearl necklace that was Marie Antoinette's mum's… _how?_ How is this crazy amazing thing my life now?

The answer of course is you. Always you. Which brings me to the other thing I thought when I saw you that night, mirror-light flashing across your skin.

_How is this man mine?_

Mine is a foolish word because you're not mine, you're yours. But your…your _you,_ the moments and minutes that make up you and your life? You've chosen to give so many of them to me, Sherlock, handed them right to me with those big beautiful hands and that big beautiful heart, you've handed me day after day of your—of _our_ —amazing life.

So yes, mine is the right word. Your smiles, your shouts, your hands and heart and dreams and sleepy sighs, your good and your bad, you've given all of that to me, just like I will always give all of that to you, Sherlock. Always. Always. Ever and always.

John

\--

_Thus ends my 2015 Advent, a whole month sooner than my 2014 Advent, thank you Chocolamousse for the John photo in this chapter and thank you all who have provided prompts for the others! I have every intention of writing proper long stories here again, I really do, but for right now what I'm going to write is this: Thank you. You are wonderful to me. You comment on my stories and make writing them a joy. Though it's not quite the new year any more, shall we resolve to keep going on as we've been? Us, together, reading and writing and being joyful? Pursuing, like John Watson, our place and our purpose? Let's. (P.S.[Larger images here](http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/post/142376216844/fic-its-the-end-of-the-year-as) and and and! [Sherlock in that corset](http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/post/142416650809/allmannerofsomethings-sherlock-in-his-copper)!) (The [corset itself](http://alexandrahart.com/blog-post/corset-ii-allied-craftsmen-today-exhibition-at-the-mingei/)!)_


End file.
